Today's post is a sombre one.
It's belated and it's a piece I had been dreading to pen.
But it's been one year, and I think the time is ripe, even though the wounds may not have completely closed.
It was the year 2023, and it was mid-September.
The phone call came at 2.45am while I was asleep.
"My mum," Stanley said over the phone. "She just passed away."
It had been a year since the formidable Mrs Monica Ong tripped and fell at home.
At first, Mrs Ong recovered well while she was hospitalised.
It was, after all, just a hip injury.
But the longer she stayed in the ward, the more the problems arose.
It went from lung infection to organ failure within a year.
It was way too much for Stanley and the boys to digest.
"What do you need," I asked Stanley.
"Nothing for now. I'll give you the details later."
"Okay. I love you ok, Stan?" I said.
For the rest of that night, I didn't -- and couldn't -- sleep.
I began planning leave for the next few days and mentally preparing myself for a painful journey ahead with Stanley.
At 6am sharp, I called my partner J, knowing he'd be up.
And then, I rang Carl the dense one.
By 2pm, Stanley texted with the details.
The wake was to be held in the Ong's three-storey home in Lorong Chuan.
By 2.45pm, armed with bottles of cooling herbal tea and a box of savoury baked char siew pies, I arrived at Stanley's parent's home.
The first night of the wake was reserved only for family, and Stanley insisted the boys and I be included.
In all my years of knowing Stanley, this was the palest and most despondent he'd been.
He received my hug with little emotion but he held tightly on to me.
The photo of Mrs Ong was beautiful. She was photographed in mid-laugh, and not a single strand of her bob hairstyle was out of place. She looked stately, gracious, mischievous even, in that photo.
I said a silent Hail Mary in front of that black-and-white photo and asked God to keep Mrs Monica Ong in one arm, and in His other, to cradle the living ones she's left behind.
And then came the time to see Mrs Ong.
"You sure?" Stanley checked.
I nodded firmly.
I linked arms with Stanley and approached the coffin.
Mrs Ong looked like she was napping before a wedding dinner -- a string of pearl necklace adorned her neck. She wore a bright green cheongsam with intricate patterns. But her hair was grey. Not the jet black I remember her to sport when she was alive.
Stanley looked numb. And tired.
We sat and didn't talk.
The silence need not be filled with words, and we were comfortable to just sit in the moment.
Later that evening, my partner J popped by after work with Carl the dense one.
Carl immediately morphed into a beefy baby when he saw Stanley, hugging him and saying "I'm so sorry", his tears and mucous making wet patches on Stanley's white tee.
In all our years of friendship, having gone through ups and downs together, having laughed and cried together, having fought and made up together, this was one of the most painful moments. But we were together.
Stanley's parents' front porch -- the venue of many merry parties which Mrs Monica Ong, God bless her soul, loved throwing -- is now hosting a family farewell.
All of Mrs Ong's sisters were there. They all looked alike. Dressed alike. Spoke in similar, crisp accents.
In one corner sat Stanley's dad who was surrounded by his and his late wife's family, all having come to give hugs and condolences. Stanley's older sibling Cindy Ong who's sometimes referred to as his nemisister was busy filling guests' glasses and peanuts.
She came by ours and and nodded at us. A nod that said thank you for being there for my brat brother.
Amid the buzzing activity, Stanley just sat there staring glassily into the air.
His posture was defeated, his body limp. No tears, no expression, no words.
It was the most vulnerable and broken even, that I had ever seen him.
But Stanley need not worry.
Right now, he's encircled by his tightest, strongest, and most loyal loved ones.
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Dedicated to Mrs Monica Ong, 1949-2023
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